Stop Stammering
by Loud-Bass-Woman
Summary: Draco doesn’t like stammering, but he does it anyway. He thinks about what three people mean to him – Harry, Lucius, and himself. SLASH.


A/N: Nnng. Randomness. Ffurf. Just review, will you? Bit about Harry is boring, but the Lucius and Draco bits are twisted but intriguing.

WARNINGS: Sickness, slash, child abuse, stammering.

**Stop Stammering**

**-I-**

Harry.

Scarface. Boy Who Lived.

Gryffindor's Golden Boy. Potty. Boy Wonder.

Everyone thinks you're perfect. Everyone thinks you're perfect, and it _pisses me off_.

You are perfect, you _are_, Perfect Potter, only you're not, you're not perfect at the same time, and only I know, only I know the truth . . .

You have a hero-complex.

Seemingly simple but complex in reality.

You have so many morals that they all get twisted up together into one big web that you have trouble getting out of.

You care so much about people that you get so attached to them and it hurts you so much when they turn out to be not how you thought they were.

You never think of yourself but always think of others, and when you sleep, you have dreams, no, not dreams, _nightmares_, you have _nightmares_ . . .

Screaming people empty eyes blank faces writhing bodies painangerragedeath, they all bleed together as one, impassiveness, lack of sensation, lack of feeling, _numb_ . . .

Your haunted gaze is green and not empty but not full of life either, it's just haunted, haunted, and I want to-

I want to scoop you into my arms and kiss and hug you and tell you that it's OK, you can let it go now, it's alright, no one's going to hurt you anymore, nothing's gonna hurt you ever again, not while I'm here . . .

I wish it were that simple.

But then again, nothing is ever simple, and if it ever was then none of this would never have happened, Voldemort would have just died and all the Death Eaters would have just gone to Azkaban and no one else would have died, Mother wouldn't have died Hagrid wouldn't have died Ron wouldn't have died, but they did, they all did, they all died, so, I guess, my wish is in vain.

I bet you'd wonder how I know about Hagrid, wouldn't you? Dumbledore hasn't announced it yet.

Well, Dumbledore's a _fool_, and _I_, of course, I know, I know about Hagrid, I mean, after all, I _am-_

You're perfect, Harry.

I'd love to actually be able to say your name, you know.

Harry. Feels good on my tongue, just how I'd imagine you would.

I did say it, actually. Your name. I did say it out loud.

Once.

Father was trying to get it out of me; he wanted to know, wanted to know the reason I was weak, the reason I was pathetic, the reason I was scarred, the reason I wasn't a Malfoy.

He . . . h-he was . . . was using wh-whips and . . . and . . . and chains and . . . the c-curses an-an-and the . . . the . . . God, he went into my mind, and . . . he _raped_ my fucking _mind _and . . . th-the power and the . . . the _pain_ and the . . .

The blood the ch-chains the curses the sp-sp-spells the b-break and tear and I can't f-f-feel my head and I'm numb and this isn't happening and I-I-I cried and screamed and w-w-wasn't a-a Ma-Malfoy and the dying whisper on my lips before I completely passed out was

"Harry."

**-II-**

Lucius.

Dada, Daddy, Dad, Father, Sir, Master.

That's the way it goes, do-does it-it-it not?

I s-s-stammer s-sometimes. But only in my head. And only when I'm nervous. And s-s-sometimes, when the worst comes to the w-w-worst, I . . . I . . . I st-stammer out loud.

But I must n-not th-think.

The long f-fair hair, the long per-perfect nose, the cold grey eyes, the thin lips, the imperiousity (yes I know it's not a word, F-Father, and, and, and I'm sorry) of the way you stand, shoulders back head high chest out the world revolves around you.

I learnt it all from you, Daddy.

The way to speak, the way to look, the way to learn, the way to sound, the way to b-b-be.

You're Mr I Own The World. I'm Mr I Own A Mansion.

You're Mr I Own The Ministry. I'm Mr I Own My School.

You're Mr I Own My Son. I'm Mr I Own . . . Nothing.

Why do you hate Harry, Daddy? Is it just because I like him? Because you know he'll never like me, Dad, never. He'll ne-ne-never like a Death Eater's son.

Why do you say these things, Father? Don't you u-understand how much your words hurt me? I know he'll never love me back, Sir, b-but I can still hope and dream.

May I please question you, Master? Whe-when did I turn into your s-s-slave, Master? Why do you do this to me, Master?

Where did all go wrong, Daddy?

When I was small, my first word was 'Dada'.

Then I was able to say other vowels, and so I called you 'Daddy'.

But then when I was five and I called you 'Daddy' in front of your friends, you, you, you h-h-hit me.

So I called you 'Dad' after that.

But apparently 'Dad' made you sound too s-s-soft, so when I was nine you became 'Father'.

When I was in my s-second year you became 'Sir', as you did not permit me to speak to you 'ins . . . insolently'.

Five years later you were 'Master'.

My Daddy, my Father, my Master. Ha ha ha ha. It's funny, is it not? Ha. Ha ha. Ha ha ha ha ha ha hahahahahahahahahaha-

No it's not. Stop laughing. Stop . . . s-stop, st-stop laughing.

_Stop stammering, Draco._

Stop laughing. Please, j-j-just . . . st-stop laughing.

_Stop stammering, Draco._

S-s-stop laughing. S-s-stop . . . stop . . . s-s-stop laughing.

_Stop. Stammering. Draco._

S-s-s-stop.

please. Stop . . . st-stop laughing.

_Stop. Stammering._

please, F-F-Father, I-I-I . . .

_STOP STAMMERING!_

And then came the bruised eye crying the bloody tears that fell on the torn skin of the cheeks and then flowed onto the tender skin of the broken ivory bone and I stammered no longer.

**-III-**

Draco.

Prince of Slytherin, Daddy's little Death Eater, the Ice King, Snake of the Snakes, Malicious Git, Impertinent Bastard, Snobby Motherfucker.

Me.

Me, myself, I. Me.

Me me me memememememe_me_.

It's all about me, now. Not about you or you or you or you or you anymore, but me, _me_.

But there is nothing to say.

I shall let my pale pink mouth of which the lips are clamped shut tight do my talking.

I shall let my emotionless steel grey eyes do my screaming.

I shall let my heavily flushed cheeks show my shame.

I shall let my sickeningly pale skin do my whispers.

I shall let my skinny little lithe body on which you can feel my hips and count my ribs show my suffering.

I shall let the screaming and the hate and the pride and the love and the pain in my head in my brain in my broken mind do all my stammering for me.

And I shall let my slit wrists bleed all the imperfection out of me.

Farewell Harry, farewell Father.

I'm sorry I s-s-stammered.

**End.**


End file.
